Unwanted

It is morning now (8:37) and not much has changed... My eyes are strained against the distance of my escaped sleep and he doesn't want me. I think that I am done here.

I kind of wish that I could sleep, though. It would make the day much easier today and my eyes wouldn't sting so fucking much...

Maybe I should try to get the last hour before the alarm...

Fucking Pathetic

Inside golden bends that stick to themselves, softly falling ribs. And the leaves from the column tops strain their necks, bending towards the coolness and away from the stone. (Her billowing blue sash). And drops of salt on my cheeks. (Made good through love... maybe that's the problem).

So then, what am I afraid of that it never seems to go...

********************************

Anyway... and later and the most fucked up night yet. I must have cried four times on Coronas and ass fucked and he slapped me. And I am still empty and I am still dead and he still won't say that he loves me and I am still the same after all this fucking and the bliss of this afternoon.

Everything was perfect before... And I was sure that it was all in sync... But the fucking Hudson lies! And the breeze and the lips of those kids and the peace and my waist and the metal railing with the three looming towers pressed against the George Washington skyline. And I should have known!

And I can't even see anymore through these tears and there is no one at the other end of the clouds.

Why do I always fuck everything up? Should I, at this point, expect anything less...?

Grant's Tomb and Vodka

There is almost no point to writing anymore... life is lived at a clip that outruns it and these letters (which were once my soul survival) seem like almost an archaic practice now.

I am in B's new apartment (at 139th Street) (and for the second night) and it is only part of a pathetic favor to help me avoid Grant's tomb, my vodka bottle and myself.

AIR7 called me today with incredible nerve after last night (I mean, the night before...). When he wanted to cum in my face and I said "no" he emotionally shut himself down and I cried and I hate him and then he said that he loved me, and I left and whispered goodbye, which I know is a goodbye forever. (Please God, give me the strength to make it that way). And then the next night, I slept with B (for the fourth time) and am back again, although only to avoid my tears at his fucking phone call.

Am I supposed to call him back (a funny story!). But I can't because it crushes me and I die every time I try to bend him and all of that to my will. I saw Scheisser on Sunday night, too (who was suddenly so charming again) and I wished for the laughter and for the rush and the joy that my life was. And now I am nothing but a fucking slut. (The Irish man at the concert... the Mexican in the bar... the Indian taxi driver) and I hate myself more for it and feel more and more worthless and I desperately try to connect to anyone.

But now AIR7 is taking away form me even that, and so he is taking away everything... I have nothing without him... without sleeping on his shoulder. Without the flashing red smile of the Whitney museum.

(And B says "It's not raining.")

I don't what to do because I can't make things the way that I wish...

B and I saw Eyes Wide Shut today and all I want to do is smoke up (or snort up) and spit on him and his beautiful green eyes and never need him ever again and never wish to be called sweet or made to feel beautiful... Because I am not. I am a slut who never deserved him to begin with and I want to die being denied him, even if I have to struggle with it.

I don't want peace. I want him. I don't want to move on. I want to move back.

But God and the whole fucking world conspire to make happiness impossible.

Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, FUCK HIM!!!

Stay out of the Hospital

At MoMa with B and Sharon and her friend for Friday night jazz. And I just saw The General's Daughter and am sweating through weakness and hot flashes. I have to remember the cardinal rule-- push yourself just far enough to stay out of notice and out of the hospital... respect the Golden line. But I just don't want to eat anymore... Last night I did... and fought it off and today I don't want to anymore.

That movie was really disturbing at some parts... her eyes... and the acting sucked. But like he said, she died seven years ago. It was the same in "Sideman" when she kept insisting "I've been dead for 30 years."

And it is possible to be living dead; but the real question is whether or not it is possible to be raised. And nobody really understands.

And I am bored with drugs and I am bored with "good" and I am bored with pretending every day that everything is okay.

And it kills me because I know what I need and I know what the cure is, but it is the one thing that is utterly unavailable because part of me is gone and that is that part of me that I need to be able to give.

Nussbaum & Wu

So, time drags on...

Sitting in Nussbaum & Wu, waiting for AIR7 and our breezy day at Ellis Island to begin. I got my ear pierced last night and B had to hold my hand. (And that Texan in the club and the blue-eyed college counselor in the museum). And my coffee still steams although ten minutes have passed.

I had a really nice day yesterday... Austin Powers with VJ, Gustav Moreau, Chinatown and then the Village with B. And everything is so smooth...

(And I've almost forgotten what he looks like and his bounce and the boundless binding in my chest and throat).

I have to remember to call Switzerland tomorrow because it would just look really bad if I forget to call twice.

Now he is 15 minutes late. And my hair is wet and flat and not very cohesive today and it is bothering me. My ear is gently throbbing. (God! This coffee is still burning hot!) And it tastes like the chew of a coffee bean.

I wonder why my handwriting is so messy and what that says about me...

God damn it, AIR7! Where are you?!?

And I was just thinking about B and putting his thing in at Drip.... Am I that scared? (The way I just wrote that reminded me of that parking sign I saw yesterday that said "Don't even THINK about parking here!")

Anyway...

The Moreau Exhibit

Gustav Moreau

The bricks are blurred and the moss falls like sheets of rain.

Orpheus
The Angels of Sodom

Part of it is the veil-- the thin scratches that come so close that it is hard to distinguish whether they have been clawed through the paint or onto the very lenses of my own eyes...

And the bursts of gold and light like stained glass, but in opaques... That's really where the beauty is... In the thickness of this glowing, vibrant, broken non-glass.

At the Bank (on drugs)

In "the Bank" and frighteningly sober after the blur of the subway ride... although I am still not myself (with those pages stained red) and the prom kids are sore in this world... which is my world of powdery slashes of color and air that makes your eyes sting. And I have lost Liu and NiS. (And somehow feel uniformed here). But this is too much '80's and not enough death and it is my own cigarette that is causing the burn in my blackened eyes. (Literally).

And I wish to die... to pass out... or to make out. And I wish it were Sunday and I were with AIR7 already, although this is what I love.

But I am so tired and want to pass out... And I am afraid if I go back into the pound and into the light that I will pass out (away).

And I want to close my eyes and slip into/away from all of it.

And I wonder if blisters will rise with tomorrow. (Blinded by flashes of red and blue!)

And the kiss from someone... anyone... welcomed against the wall of sickness... emptiness.

Just for the wetness of the moment. (Sunday)